


Please Please Please (Let Me Get What I Want This Time)

by noos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Marco PoV, Marco can't really contain himself, Mario returns home, but they're also really accurate, i literally wrote this 2 days after telling myself i was taking a break from fic writing, implied Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang/Joshua Kimmich, those tags are really misleading tbh, various other BVB players mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 07:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7967839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noos/pseuds/noos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco's just about passed the ball back to André when someone smashes unceremoniously into him, knocking the breath out of him for a moment, hands grabbing Marco's wrists as they try to keep him from falling. He knows who it is even before he looks back up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Please Please (Let Me Get What I Want This Time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acciothirteen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acciothirteen/gifts).



> So, this came to me 70 minutes into yesterday's Germany vs Norway game, literally two days after I told my friend I wouldn't be writing for a while because I have actual real-world work to do. I should've known my overactive gotzeus imagination wouldn't get the memo. Sigh. 
> 
> As always, thanks to my amazing beta and dickhead of a friend, Elany. I hate you.
> 
> Fira. A little something to relieve some of your uni-related stress. Kisses. 
> 
> Title from the song by The Smiths.

Marco kind of _hates_ today. 

He's usually not one for overreactions, so this is absolutely not one of them.

His entire body hurts, for one thing. It's only his third training session with the rest of the squad since he's officially been cleared to return, and his four-months-plus stint off the pitch has never made itself more unpleasantly known than today. His muscles feel like they're stretching themselves thin, his ankles are acting like they're carrying 169kg worth of weight instead of the mere 69kg that he actually weighs, and even his cleats are in on the "let's make Marco suffer" plan, wedging his toes so close together he's pretty sure his little toes have disappeared from existence. It doesn't help that Tuchel decided to double their training hours for today – “we are not going to beat Madrid in two days’ time if you guys keep complaining about training” - nor the fact that the sun thinks that the end of September is the perfect time for it to inflict scorching torture on those dumb humans who've messed up its dear friend, the Ozone layer. Thank you global fucking warming. 

There's another thing that's egging him on, somewhere in the far, far, far corner of his mind. Something that he's trying very hard to ignore. A boy with a smile nearly as bright as the sun. Possibly brighter. Standing close enough that Marco can see that smile, can fucking feel it without even looking, even though it's not directed at him, but rather at the new Spaniard currently returning that smile with a grin of his own, teeth bared and eyes bright in the sun. 

No, this has nothing to do with his sour mood.

BVB's new Mats Hummels, the papers are calling him. Ha! Like he could ever replace Mats. Mats would never dare smile at Mario like that, for one thing. Not unless he's ruffling his hair and poking him in the ribs like a _brother_ would. None of that flirty banter Bartra keeps throwing left and right at Mario. Honestly, how are they even communicating? It's not like Mario's fluent in Spanish. And as far as Marco knows, Bartra has only just started his German lessons. He can count to ten, but that's about it. They both speak some English, Marco reasons with himself, but not enough for them to look so _at ease_ talking to each other. Not enough for them to look like they have inside jokes and friendship bracelets and matching grins. None of that. 

Either way, this has nothing to do with Marco's bad mood. No, his current predicament is solely due to his aching bones and the fact that Tuchel has found his true calling as Vlad the Impaler.

"Alright boys!" Tuchel announces, clapping his hands together, clearly eager to prove Marco right. "Break's over! It's time for some more laps!"

Marco groans, rubbing his eyes tiredly and gladly reaching for Auba's extended arm to pull himself up. 

"Alright, my friend?" Auba asks, squeezing his shoulder lightly and levelling him with an inquisitive stare, soft and worried all at the same time. He likes Auba. Auba's a great friend. Auba doesn't smile at Mario like the sun shines out of his ass, either. 

"Yeah, yeah," Marco reassures, trying for a smile. He doesn't think he's very successful, is pretty sure it comes out more like a pained grimace. "Trying to get used to the rhythm again, is all," he shrugs, nodding slightly and ducking his head for a second before looking back up at his friend. 

Auba offers him an understanding smile, clapping his shoulder and shuffling on his feet a little, moving enough to the left that Marco can see Mario behind him. 

Their eyes meet for a second, Mario's smile completely wiped off his face now, replaced with something closer to sadness.

Of course. He gets the butt hurt look while Marc fucking Bartra gets the blinding smiles.

Lucky fucker.

Mario averts his eyes just in time to see Lukasz bump him in the shoulder, shooting him a small grin before he starts to jog lightly alongside him, Schmelle falling on his other side.

Marco snaps out of it when Tuchel lets out an ungodly whistle from behind them. 

"Let's go, let's go, let's go! Reus, Pierre, Nuri, pick it up!"

He groans again as he gets his feet moving, jogging lightly, feeling sweat already pooling at the back of his neck. He looks down at his cleats to check that his laces are not tied together, tries to think of anything other than the fact that his feet feel like they weigh a tonne. 

He looks back up to find Auba already ahead of him with Dembélé by his side, and before Marco can pick up his pace, André sidles up to him. He still forgets that he's actually here now.

"You look like shit," André grunts next to him, trying to level his breathing as he moves his arms rhythmically, their elbows bumping together every few seconds.

Marco snorts as he looks at André. His cheeks are flushed unevenly, his hair sticking up rather oddly on the crown of his head, a few strands curling awkwardly on his sweaty forehead. His teeth are bared in a pained look, eyes squinted against the sun. 

"You look exactly like you always do," he shoots back, wheezing painfully as he tries to get the words out while keeping a steady rhythm. 

André lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, clearly unwilling to waste any more energy on talking.

They fall back into a familiar and comfortable silence, jogging side by side the entire time. 

Marco keeps his eyes trained on Mario's back, watching him as he trots a little further up, flanked by Lukasz and Schmelle, who seem to be deep in conversation. Mario doesn't join them, keeping his head low, his shoulders slumped as he runs between the two. 

Marco doesn't like it one bit. Not the way Mario's steps feel heavy and his shoulders seem weighed down, like he's carrying some invisible burden. Not the way he keeps his head down, his feet clumsy against the grass. Mostly, though, Marco hates that he can tell all of that just by looking at Mario's back. 

"Alright, pair up!" Arno yells next to Tuchel after blowing his whistle.

Marco closes his eyes for a moment as his feet slow down on the grass, holding his side as he tries to regain his breath. He can feel a light breeze pick up for a moment, and he flexes his neck and silently thanks whichever higher power had to do with this brief respite.

André stands next to him, hands on his waist as he waits for Arno to pass them a ball. He flicks it with his foot as soon as he does, kicking it Marco's way as he puts some distance between them to start their passing drill. 

Marco's just about passed the ball back to André when someone smashes unceremoniously into him, knocking the breath out of him for a moment, hands grabbing Marco's wrists as they try to keep him from falling. He knows who it is even before he looks back up.

"Fuck! Sorry--I'm, fuck," Mario mutters, letting go of Marco's wrists and retracting his hands as he takes a step back.

"It's fine, I'm fine," Marco mumbles, trying not to wince as he cradles his side where Mario's elbow tried to impale him a mere seconds ago.

"Lukasz!" Tuchel yells close by. "Do you think you can maybe try shorter passes, so maybe Götze doesn't have to kill Reus to reach the ball? We just got him back and we need him for Tuesday."

"Yes, coach," Lukasz mumbles as he laughs, raising an apologetic hand in the air. "Sorry, Woody."

"I'm fine," Marco reassures, throwing a thumb up at Lukasz before looking back at Mario. "I am."

Mario nods, reaching with his right foot to ease the ball currently between Marco's feet back, sending a quick back heel pass to Lukasz without even looking. He stares at Marco for another second, eyes almost glassy and hands twitching on either side. 

They're close enough that Marco can see just how red his lips are, the bottom one a little swollen from where Mario must’ve sucked on it a little too hard when he was concentrating on some drill or other – a nasty habit, and Marco hates that he knows that about him and the tiny scars on his forehead from when he fell off the monkey bars when he was eight. His hair's growing back nicely, a golden caramel hue under this light, a few strands sticking up messily, and Marco thinks of a time when he wouldn't have thought twice about reaching out and running his fingers through the short locks to fix them back in place. It's neither here nor there now, though, so Marco takes a step back as Mario closes both his fists next to him, mirroring Marco and taking another step back.

"Sorry again," he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper as he turns to jog over to Lukasz. 

Marco closes his eyes, trying to chase away the image of Mario's retreating back, exhaling loudly and shakily as he tries to contain himself.

When he opens them back, André's staring at him, and Marco flicks the ball next to his feet before he passes it to André.

"What?" He asks self-consciously after a minute, unable to ignore André's knowing looks anymore.

"How long are you going to ignore him and the fact that he's back here?"     

Marco takes a wide step to his right to catch André's pass, taking the time to look around them once the ball's securely at his feet. They're relatively far from the rest of their teammates, so he's pretty sure no one can hear them over the low buzz of chitter chatter on the pitch, and the closest people to them are Bartra and Guerreiro anyway, who honestly wouldn't understand German if it hit them in the face. 

Still, he doesn't really want to give André the satisfaction. So he plays dumb.

"Who? What are you talking you?" He asks as he passes the ball a little too harshly, grinning when André nearly trips as he tries to contain it. André raises his eyebrows once the ball's at his feet, passing it back with sensible force, the ball stopping exactly at Marco's boots. Marco groans as he kicks it back, feeling like a bit of a jerk. "I'm not ignoring him."

"Really?" André questions, manoeuvring the ball between his feet as he smiles dubiously at Marco. "And the last time you spoke to him was..."

"Just now," Marco shrugs, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. "When he tried to kill me."

"And the last time you spoke to him on purpose was..." André repeats, ignoring Marco's huffs. 

"I'm not ignoring him," Marco insists.

He is, though. He hasn't actually spoken to Mario recently. Not since right before the Euros when Mario told him he'd made his decision and was going to go back to Dortmund, exactly a day before Jogi told Marco he could not be a part of his international plans until he recovered completely. That was over four months ago.

"Yes, you are," André tells him, sounding kinda pissed. "Barring that day we did the team photoshoot and you remembered that you can't keep your hands to yourself when Mario's close by," he adds, shrugging lightly and wiping his sweaty face with the bottom of his shirt. "But you didn't actually have a choice, we were assigned our seats. You had to be close to him. And you've made sure to keep him at arms' length since."

Marco groans, closing his eyes and pulling his head back for a second. The heat has become a lot more bearable now, the afternoon breeze picking up, dark clouds already visible on the horizon. 

He can see the back of Mario's head behind his closed lids, neck peppered with tiny caramel hairs from the trim he must've gotten right before the shoot. He remembers how he couldn't stop himself from brushing those hairs away, Mario jumping lightly in surprise and turning to look at him. He remembers him smiling awkwardly before turning back, and his own body betraying him when his hand crept up from Mario's neck to lose itself in his short hair for just a second, long enough for the cameras to catch his moment of weakness. He remembers reaching to touch his skin and his neck and his back a few more times, until sweet relief came in the form of the main photographer telling them it was time for individual shots, at which point Marco nearly sprinted out of there. 

"I haven't," Marco tells André weakly, opening his eyes and getting back to reality.

"You do realize he's back here because it's where he wants to be, right?" André says in lieu of an answer, picking the ball up and tucking it under his arm, waiting for further instructions from Arno. "Everyone kept telling him to go to Kloppo, but he chose here. He let Volker go because he was pushing him to go to England."

Ugh. This is really not a conversation Marco has been particularly eager to have with anyone. Especially since somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this. Self-centred as this might sound, Marco knows Mario is back for him. In parts, at least.

"He's here because he's got a debt to settle with the Dortmund fans," he tells André instead, trying to pay attention to Arno's instructions.

"Bullshit," André mutters straight away, something resembling anger colouring his tone. "He was young, and he made a career choice. It wasn't the best choice, but he doesn't owe them or anyone else any apologies. You fucking know that." He stops for a moment, turning to Marco. "The career choice this time around would've been to go to Liverpool. They actually need him there."

"And we don't need him here?" Marco asks before he can think about it, wincing as he registers the treacherous word. 

_We_.

"Of course we do," André agrees, his voice a little softer. "He's fucking good at what he does, and all he needs is someone trusting him to be good to show it. What I'm saying is, there's as much competition on the squad here as there was back in Bayern. Especially with all the new players. His choice this time was a personal one. It was about coming back home."

Marco ignores the voice inside of him that keeps wondering if he's part of Mario's home.

"He certainly seems fine with all the new players coming in," Marco remarks before he can stop himself, watching as Marc walks over to Mario.

"Jesus, Marco," André mumbles, laughing under his breath. Marco's skin prickles with something akin to shame. "Are you for real? He keeps close to him because _you_ won't even look at him. He doesn't want to intrude on your space or step on your fucking toes or whatever.” André closes his eyes for a moment, seemingly contemplating something. “He's got some stupid idea that if he makes friends with your friends, that if he gives Auba and Gonzo and Papa and all those other people who became your teammates when he wasn't there the time of day, you'd think he was trying to push himself into your tight-knit group or something. That you'd hate him for it because you've changed and he's changed and the second time is never gonna be like the first time. So he sticks close to the new people because it feels like he's new here, too, and they make him feel like less of an outsider, and Marc is just as desperate to fit in as Mario is. It's not easy, moving your life from one country to another. Trust me, I've been there, and I had it easier, because I could actually speak the language. Bartra can't."

Arno blows his whistle before Marco can say anything else, and they spend the next hour running drills quietly. Marco thinks he might actually pass out by the time Tuchel tells them they can shower, struggling to even walk.

He's quick to untie his laces and take his cleats off, holding on to them as he starts walking towards the building.

Everyone's heading the same way, just about ready to call it a day. Marco's gaze flickers back to the pitch before he's completely inside, and he notices Mario's still out there, a determined look on his face as he helps out gathering the balls. He always stays behind to help out with that. They used to do it together.

Marco closes his eyes for a second, sighing deeply before he turns around, heading back to the pitch instead. He leaves his cleats at the edge of the lawn, stepping on the grass with only his socks on, the soles of his feet aching. 

He takes a deep breath as he picks up a couple of balls, silently walking over to Mario, who doesn't see him coming, his head bowed as he tries to push the balls further inside the bag to clear some more space.

Marco stops when he's right in front of him, dropping the balls on top of the pile.

"Thanks--" Mario starts, shutting up when he finally looks up to find himself face to face with Marco, eyes bulging out of their sockets almost comically.

Marco doesn't say anything, shooting him a lopsided grin as he turns back to pick another few balls, and helping out in silence. 

Everyone’s already in the showers by the time they make it inside, except for Auba who’s dressed and ready to go, and Erik, who’s still taking his sweet time.

Auba grins at them as each heads over to his locker, sorting their clothes out.

“We’re watching the game at mine, on Wednesday,” he tells them, gathering his stuff. “I expect you all to be there.”

Marco grins tiredly at his friend as he fishes out a soft cotton shirt from his bag, placing it next to a pair of sweats.

“Sure, man.”

Auba smiles wider, bumping his fist with Marco and doing one of their handshakes.

“Erik?” Auba asks, turning his attention to the blond boy who nods easily. “Mario?” He continues, looking at the boy on the other side of the room. Mario looks up like a deer caught in headlights, eyebrows raised. “Wednesday? Bayern vs Atletico at my place?”

“You really should come, Mario,” Erik tells him as he walks past him and towards the showers. “You'll be the only one rooting for Bayern with him,” he adds as an afterthought before disappearing inside.

“You root for Bayern?” Mario asks, his eyebrows nearly at his hairline now.

“I root for someone who plays for Bayern,” Auba shrugs with some difficulty, having a hard time accepting it.

“Right,” Mario nods, smiling lightly. “Jo,” he adds. He nods his head once more before pulling himself back together. His eyes meet Marco’s for a second, something like hesitation in there, before he speaks again. “I don't think I can make it. My brother is coming over to watch the game at my place, and-“

“Bring him along,” Auba interrupts quickly. “The more the merrier.”

“Nah,” Mario brushes him off, waving his hand non-committedly. “It’s fine. I think he’d rather we stay in, so…”

“Okay,” Auba concedes, sounding almost as disappointed as Marco feels. “That's fine, I guess.”

“You should tell Marc, though,” Mario’s quick to add, and it rubs Marco all wrong. “He's kinda having a hard time being so far out of his comfort zone. And I think with the baby and everything, he'd love the chance to have a night out.”

Baby. Right. Because Marc Bartra’s in a loving relationship with a woman. And he has a kid. Marco kinda wants to laugh at his own stupidity because he _knows_ all of this.

“Already done that,” Auba reassures, an understanding smile crossing his face. “Anyway, I’m out. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the invite, though,” Mario calls out before Auba’s outside.

The latter shoots him one last look.

“Yeah, sure. Maybe next time,” he mutters before disappearing outside, leaving Mario and Marco alone together.

Marco takes a deep breath before walking over to Mario.

“Is this because of me?” He asks when he’s in front of him, holding tightly to his shampoo bottle.

“Huh?” Mario asks dumbly, looking up from his bag again, surprised to see Marco standing so close.

“Are you not going to Auba's place because I’m going to be there?” Marco clarifies, getting straight to the point. He shuffles on his feet a little, his voice breaking on the last word.

What if this has nothing to do with him and Mario just really doesn’t want to go?

“What?” Mario nearly yells, eyes widening in panic. “No. Of course not,” he adds quickly. “I'm not trying to stay away from you, if that's what you think.”

Marco smiles a little to himself, ducking his head for a second. Of course he’d take it like that.

“But you think that _I_ want to stay away from _you_. That I want you to stay away from me,” he clarifies, meeting Mario’s eyes again.

His features soften and he swallows audibly, pulling out a clean Dortmund hoodie from his backpack. He doesn’t look at Marco when he speaks next.

“Don't you?”

“I don't know,” Marco replies, his voice low and hoarse. He really didn’t think they would be having this conversation today. He’s not fucking prepared. “This is hard,” he admits, running his fingers through his hair. “I never thought I'd ever have to deal with something like this. How do people stay friends with their exes?”

“I don't think they do,” Mario tells him even though Marco’s not really looking for an answer, a smile in his voice. “Ann used to tell me that the exes you never keep in touch with are usually the ones you loved the most,” he adds, shrugging.

_Ex_.

The more Marco thinks about it, the more he wants to throw up.

Ex. Ex. Ex.

“That doesn't really make any sense,” he mumbles to give himself something to do, rubbing his neck and looking down at the ground. He forgot to take his socks off.  

“It does, if you think about it,” Mario argues without any real bite. Marco looks up at him then, his brow furrowing lightly in question. “Think of someone you were with, but didn't really love,” Mario tells him, and Caro’s face immediately pops into Marco’s mind. He cared about Caro and they were great friends, but both of them knew from day one it was never really going to last. “Are you okay with them being with someone else?” Mario asks, and Marco doesn’t have to think about it when he nods. “Now think of someone you really did love, but had to let go.” Marco swallows against the lump in his throat. He doesn’t have to imagine him, because he’s standing right in front of him. “Are you okay with them finding someone else? With _watching_ them be with someone else?” He thinks about Mario smiling at Marc. No. No. No. Never. Not that he would ever sabotage Mario’s chance at happiness. Never. But he doesn’t want to see it happen, if it’s not with him. _He_ won’t be okay. He can't imagine ever being okay with Mario being with someone else. But he also can't imagine ever wanting Mario not to be in his life. So where does that leave them? He’s thinking too much. There’s too much he wants to say. He keeps quiet. “Anyway,” Mario mumbles, pointing towards the showers, “I should…”

“You should come on Wednesday,” Marco tells him, meeting his eyes. “You and Fab,” he adds. “I haven’t seen him in forever. It'll be fun. Auba gets uncharacteristically aggressive when Jo's playing,” he continues, trying to lighten the mood. “It's honestly amazing to watch.”

“Are you sure?” Mario asks, his face lighting up somewhat, hints of that smile Marco craves so much colouring his features.

Marco pulls his socks off one by one, moving over to the other side of the room to throw them on top of his dirty pile, trying to keep his own grin under control.

“Yeah,” he says, grabbing his towel and falling in step with Mario as they walk over to the showers. “Yeah. It'll be good.” 

 

 


End file.
